


The Road Winds To You (I Met The Strangest Man)

by Hallianna



Series: Of Other Than Bardic Beginnings [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Injury, Fluff and Smut, Geraskier, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rimming, Scent Kink, Scenting, Sexual Tension, Smut, Tenderness, alternate meeting for geralt and jaskier, and can't accept nice things, and geralt likes it, au where jaskier's an innkeep, bottom jaskier, geralt is a big damn hero, jaskier is a greedy bottom, not canon beginnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28205031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallianna/pseuds/Hallianna
Summary: The inn stopped when a mountain of a man clad in black armor with two swords strapped to his back strode in the door. The minstrels screeched to a halt and everyone cut their chatter to stare. Jaskier went into full emergency mode, giving the musicians the stink eye as he said, “Continue, everyone! It is Belleteyn, after all! Don’t miss the dance reels behind the inn, great fun!” He motioned to the servers and yelled, “Drinks on the house!” A raucous cheer went up as the inn slowly bustled back to life, but the stares followed the Witcher anyways.A Witcher. At his inn. Jaskier couldn’t believe his luck. Most business owners didn’t enjoy having Witchers around, but that always seemed like superstitious balderdash to him. Witchers were strong and brave and capable of putting down creatures that haunted the caves and swamps and killed innocents. It never made any sense to him to denigrate such courage.AU where Jaskier runs an inn, Geralt rents a room, and the two can't keep their hands off each other, but parting is damn difficult.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Of Other Than Bardic Beginnings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2069358
Comments: 66
Kudos: 829





	The Road Winds To You (I Met The Strangest Man)

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in a new fandom! What the heck am I doing?!? (But also y'all are super sweet and holy crap)

Belleteyn was the perfect night for a grand re-opening. The tables groaned with food and decanters sparkled with plum wine and spirits. Music filled the space and since he’d splurged, they were actually quite pleasant to listen to. Laughter and chatter swelled around him as servers bustled back and forth carrying trays laden with delectable little morsels. The kitchen was humming right along. And coin was flowing.

It was a fine night for a grand re-opening.

This would mark The Traveler’s Way as the stop for any and all looking to rest their weary heads and sore feet, as the promise of good food and a comfortable bed was worth the few extra coins. Jaskier was going to take the family business and expand into hospitality, providing affordable accommodations that didn’t cater to any one set of folk. And as he stood behind the polished oak counter and sold his next to last room (to a couple who were definitely...in the mood set by the festival), he couldn’t help but grin.

This was just the start. He had grand plans and couldn’t wait to see what was next.

And then a Witcher rode into town.

The inn stopped when a mountain of a man clad in black armor with two swords strapped to his back strode in the door. The minstrels screeched to a halt and everyone cut their chatter to stare. Jaskier went into full emergency mode, giving the musicians the stink eye as he said, “Continue, everyone! It is Belleteyn, after all! Don’t miss the dance reels behind the inn, great fun!” He motioned to the servers and yelled, “Drinks on the house!” A raucous cheer went up as the inn slowly bustled back to life, but the stares followed the Witcher anyways. 

A Witcher. At his inn. Jaskier couldn’t believe his luck. Most business owners didn’t enjoy having Witchers around, but that always seemed like superstitious balderdash to him. Witchers were strong and brave and capable of putting down creatures that haunted the caves and swamps and killed innocents. It never made any sense to him to denigrate such courage.

The Witcher stalked over to the counter and Jaskier had to fight back a slack jawed expression. Melitele’s fine arse, he was _gorgeous_ . Bright gold cat eyes, firm mouth set in a frown, steely jaw. The white hair, while striking, was a bit ragged but he could fix that up. And he was _massive_ . Jaskier wasn’t a small man but the Witcher made him look like a child in comparison. And he absolutely _was not_ staring at the Witcher’s gloved hands or admiring the impossibly tight pants that covered thick thighs.

_Jaskier, stop. No. Do not think such things about your customers! It’s uncouth and oh my god, how does someone so big move so quietly?_

He swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and said, “Ah, friend, welcome to The Traveler’s Way!” Jaskier smiled brightly and gave a courtly little bow. “How may I help you this fine -“

A heavy coin purse landed on the counter as the Witcher’s eyes bore into him. “A room, with a bath, and food.”

Jaskier was going to swoon. No, no he wasn’t. He was a businessman, a proprietor. And he absolutely wasn’t suddenly obsessed with the deep, dark voice of gravel and velvet that rumbled out of the man before him like some god sent down from the skies. 

“You are in luck,” he said, cheerful note not leaving his voice. “I have one room left and it’s my second largest one. So it’s, ah, a bit more expensive than the standard -“

“How much?”

“How long are you staying?”

The Witcher studied him for a moment. That gaze scraped over Jaskier’s face and body and he felt it somewhere deep inside. Probably between the third and fourth rib and then a fair bit lower. He pointed to common room behind him. “This going on all night?”

Something in the man’s tone gave Jaskier pause. It somehow sounded like a threat, even though he’d asked a simple question. The implication in the Witcher’s voice made Jaskier’s gut twist. “My friend, it’s Belleteyn! So yes! But it mostly moves outside after the next few hours. I won’t stand for having my customers’ rest interrupted by -“

“Fuck.” The Witcher said it while looking to his left, almost as if he were presenting an aside to an audience. “Forgot it was Belleteyn.” He seemed to slump forward, like he’d been drained of the last of his energy. 

Jaskier felt for the man. He looked exhausted. And now that he had the moment, Jaskier noticed dirt smudged on the man’s face and a splash of something troublingly wine colored in his hair. “It’s only the finest night of the year! But I digress. You look completely knackered. How long do you need the room?”

“Two nights. Maybe three.”

“Perfect!” He cried, reaching under the counter for the final room key. “’I’ll have Svetlana bring up water right away. Do you have bags or -“ The Witcher shifted the pack on his back, body moving fluidly even under pounds of armor. “Right. Do you want food now or later?”

“Now.” The Witcher’s gaze narrowed. “You didn’t say how much.”

Jaskier hesitated. He wasn’t sure if the man’s pride would let him get away with this, but he was certainly going to try. “On the house.”

The other man reeled back as if he’d been slapped. “What?”

Jaskier slid the key across the counter with a grin. “Never housed a Witcher before. Never met one, actually. But we all hear the stories.” That got him a grunt and a thinning of a very fine set of lips. Suspicion. Jaskier couldn’t blame him. 

“What do you want in return?”

“Not a thing.”

“Bullshit.” The Witcher snapped out the word, weaponized it so Jaskier felt it sting his cheek. 

Jaskier held up his hands and willed his face not to flush. “Truly. I….” He looked down at the key between them. He leaned forward, put his hands on the counter, and hoped he was conveying this properly. “Please. It’s an honor to house a Witcher. You risk your life over and over again saving people and you get barely any thanks. Villagers spit at you, fear you, but ask you to save their cows or fields or daughters. It’s not right.” He let his gaze trace over the man’s scars and rough features. “And it’s not pity. I simply believe that heroes should have a well-earned rest every now and then.”

Gods above, did the man blink? He stared at Jaskier, no change in expression, no shifting of his massive frame. Jaskier was pinned by that stare. Someone could have set the building on fire and he would have stayed rooted in place. And then knowing his luck, the Witcher would have to haul his ass out. 

“Appreciate it,” the Witcher finally said, closing his fist around the key before heading to the stairs.

“Last door on the left,” Jaskier replied with a nod. And when the Witcher disappeared, Jaskier let out a breath and shook himself. He wanted to sit down and reflect, maybe document the interaction. A Witcher! In his inn. It was all too exciting.

But as he stared across the common room, Svetlana’s red scarf caught his eye and he motioned her over. “Bathwater, quick as you can. Get Roderick to make a tray and heap it full, enough for three people.” 

His employees scurried to obey, despite how busy they already were. By the time the water and food was ready, Jaskier had rearranged himself back into innkeeper mode and followed Svetlana up the stairs as she carried the water.

“Leave it there, dear,” he said quietly outside the Witcher’s door. “I’ll handle it.”

The door swung open just as Svetlana ran back downstairs. “Ah! Good Witcher sir, I apologize. I thought we were being quiet.” 

_Why couldn’t he stop rambling?_ _Or staring?_

The Witcher, still fully armored, moved out of the doorway to let him in. Jaskier carried the tray packed with food and ale, careful to not tip it, and sat it down on the little desk by the window. He pointed to the bell by the window. “If you need more, pull that and someone will be right up.” 

“I’ll be fine.” They were words, but there was also a grunt of acceptance buried somewhere between the syllables, which made Jaskier happy.

“Ah, and the bath!” He raced out to where buckets of steaming hot water were waiting and set about dumping them into the tub. But he was very _very_ aware of the other man moving around behind him. A ball of nerves formed in his stomach and Jaskier pushed it down, burying it under propriety and manners. “Now, there’s a small tray of various salts and oils for your bath on the dresser here, and if you need more water just ring us -“

“I’ll be fine,” the Witcher repeated. 

“Yes, well, I hope you enjoy your stay -“ Jaskier turned and bumped into a wall. No, that couldn’t be. He knew each room’s floor plan by heart, having designed them himself. And there was absolutely no wall - solid black and made of leather - in the middle of the floor.

Certainly not one that had a heartbeat and felt like he’d put his hands into a roaring fireplace. Jaskier had no words. No thoughts. Certainly no self-preservation instinct because any sane person would have long backed up, scraped and bowed while apologizing over and over again, and then fled.

He was very much not sane. Couldn’t be. Should be leaving right now but yet, his feet wouldn’t move. “Hmmm.” The Witcher’s hum shot through Jaskier’s body like a bolt. Gloved hands the size of bear’s paws wrapped around his and gently - shockingly gently - lowered them until Jaskier’s arms were at his sides once more. “Haven’t been around many folks in a while. Sorry about that.”

“I….hmm. Well then yes. Of course.” Jaskier was just saying things now. Nothing made sense. His head swam and his body felt too tight, too tense. He gave one swift look up to find the Witcher staring at him, a tiny smirk on the man’s face. “I’ll leave you to it. The food! And the bath! Of course.”

He bolted from the room and heard the door shut behind him.

The party downstairs was slowly dwindling down to a few drunks and his guests, so Jaskier felt he’d long earned a glass of wine. He sat down behind the counter, popped open a bottle, and poured a more than generous serving. “To Belleteyn and fucking Witchers,” he said with a grin.

* * *

Jaskier waved off his exhausted staff and set about doing one more round of clean-up. He was fretting, surely, but it was the inn’s first big night and he wanted everything to go smoothly. He drew more water from the well, checked on the stables, and made sure the town guards were doing their rotations around the square. (He half expected the lazy sods to be buried in haystacks with giggling lovers but no, they were actually working. Good to know his family’s money was worth something.) Before going inside, Jaskier straightened the NO VACANCY sign with only a small amount of pride.

And then he quietly made his way upstairs, double checking that doors were shut and no one was passed out in the hall. That’s when he spotted it - a slash of light coming from the Witcher’s door, which was not all the way closed.

Worry crept into his chest, making it tight. Should he check? The man could certainly take care of himself but it was well past midnight and he should be asleep. 

Jaskier squared his shoulders and walked down the hall, a determined set to his jaw. He was the owner, and the first line of defense for his customers. He absolutely had to ensure everyone was all right.

As he approached the Witcher’s door, he lifted a hand to knock. But the rumble of, “You can come in,” set him stumbling forward in surprise. With jerky motions, Jaskier straightened his vest and brushed his hair out of his eyes before entering the room. 

The Witcher was seated on the bed, field kit laid out before him, and he was clumsily threading a needle. But what drew Jaskier’s attention was the nasty gash in the man’s right forearm. Yes, he was shirtless and magnificent and still damp from his bath but he was also _wounded_. And Jaskier wasn’t a complete heathen.

He’d only tracked a _few_ drops of water on the Witcher’s collarbone before springing into action. 

“Melitele’s tits, why didn’t you say something?” Jaskier’s friends at university used to call him “Mother Hen” whenever he got this way, but those idiots never realized how many times he’d dragged their drunk asses out of ditches or stables. And now he was rushing over to a _Witcher_ and boldly swiping the needle and thread from the man’s fingers. “There’s no herbalist available right now,” he said gently, ignoring the way the man stared at him. “So you’ll have to make do with me.”

The gash was wide but not deep and Jaskier took a deep breath. “What did you clean this with?”

The Witcher grunted. “Alcohest.” He flicked the empty bottle on the bed. 

“Good enough, I suppose.” Jaskier threaded the needle, eyed the wound, and snipped off a lengthy line. A little extra never hurt and if he was going to stitch this correctly -

“Not worried about scars,” the Witcher said, motioning to the litany of them that covered his chest and shoulders. 

“Hazard of the job,” Jaskier said thickly, giving the Witcher’s body a cursory once-over. Yes, good. Keep it professional. Stitching up a Witcher’s wounds definitely fell under the category of odder things he’d done over his life, but it wasn’t the worst. Not by a long shot. 

“Hmmm.” 

“Ready?” He held up the needle with a smile. There was a flash of something in the man’s eyes. Not worry but apprehension. Well that wouldn’t do, not at all. “My dear Witcher, I have no doubt you could throw me out the window faster than I could attempt any move on your life.” Jaskier held up his free hand and wiggled his fingers. “The hands of a businessman and musician, sad to say. I’ve no warrior blood and the last time I held a sword was when that arse Valdo Marx cheated at fencing practice -“

“It’s a foil.”

Jaskier blinked. “Pardon?”

There was that tiny, almost imperceptible, smirk again. It did something to Jaskier’s heart to see it on such a stalwart face. “It’s a fencing foil,” the Witcher elaborated. “Not a sword.”

Jaskier laughed. “See? Never even held a sword. Wouldn’t know one if it waggled its business end under my very nose.” He drew in a deep breath. “Now, would you allow me to fix that for you?”

The Witcher leaned back, giving Jaskier room, which of course he took as silent permission to carry on. A few small stitches in, Jaskier looked up. The Witcher’s gold eyes tracked Jaskier’s every move, but it was an assessing look. Not like earlier when he was trying to determine if Jaskier was a threat (which was beyond laughable). This was more curious in nature. Something softened around those eyes and the tension in his jaw was slowly melting away. 

“Good?” Jaskier meant to ask it in a normal voice but it came out a little breathy, despite his attempt.

“Fine.”

Jaskier kept his eyes on his work, stitching in time to the Witcher’s breathing while willing his own to slow. The urge to talk was irrepressible, however; he _loved_ talking to people. He’d be a piss-poor innkeep if the opposite were true. And this was his first Witcher.

“So, Witcher...is Witcher the correct title? I’m so sorry, I never even asked your name.” Silence. Not even a twitch from the big man. Jaskier dared to look up and saw the Witcher had his eyes closed. It was an explicit display of trust, one that hit Jaskier in the heart. “Strong silent type then. Understood.”

And with a flourish the Witcher didn’t see, Jaskier finished off the final stitch and cut the thread. “That should do it. Though maybe double check my work, it’s been a while since I’ve fixed anyone up.”

The Witcher’s eyes cracked open, scanning the neatly closed wound. “It’s good work. Better than I could have managed with my less dominant hand.”

Jaskier stood and gave a little bow. “My pleasure, good sir Witcher.” And he began to back out of the room.

“Geralt.” 

That stopped Jaskier in his tracks. “I’m sorry?”

The man gestured to his chest. “My name. Geralt of Rivia.”

A grin blossomed on his face, wide and welcoming. ”A fitting name for such a man. My thanks, friend. I’m Jaskier, and it is a pleasure.” Jaskier motioned to the bell in the corner. “Please do ring if you need anything.”

When the door shut behind him with a soft click, Jaskier leaned against the wall and sighed. It had been a very fine Belleteyn after all; all the more enhanced by the unexpected but wholly appreciated appearance of a Witcher.

If Jaskier slept at all this night, it would be for naught. He was far too concerned about seeing the Witcher in the morning.

* * *

By late morning the carousers were either still abed or long gone, and the inn was quiet. About half his guests were only staying for the festival, so Jaskier set about taking stock of the larders and making sure the newly emptied rooms were cleaned (and that all the corners and under bed spaces were checked _thoroughly_ ).

Keeping busy was key - if he was busy, he couldn’t ruminate long on the appearance of the Witcher. 

Geralt. 

Blast.

So much for not thinking about the man. As he polished the common room tables and reset them with fresh flowers - it was the day after Belleteyn, after all - Jaskier hummed the chorus of some song he’d yet to write. It was a simple melody, bright and upbeat and something he might try to play one night for the staff. He could picture those cold winter nights when the inn was quiet and they’d not seen a guest in a while. They could all sit around a blazing fire, his little found family, and enjoy each other’s company for a change. If he had enough to drink, he might crack open the lute case gathering dust in the corner of his bedroom, roll his neck, and start to sing.

His father didn’t want his firstborn son wasting the family money on trite things like music and love. He was a viscount’s son and no Pankratz would be caught dead singing for his supper in a shady little tavern in a pigshit town.

 _Well father, looks like we both got what we wanted_ , Jaskier thought with a grim smile. _You died before seeing your son open an inn with your money, and I got to finish my musical training without embarrassing you._ _Fate surely smiled on us both._

He tossed the rag down with a sigh as Marielle came around the corner. He smiled at the young woman, who curtsied and asked, “All right this morning, Master Jaskier?”

“Just fine, my dear. Once you’re settled, would you go check on Thomas? He was mucking out the stables but most of the guests with horses have left. He should have been done by now.”

“Absolutely.”

Jaskier shook his head as she left. Marielle and Thomas kept dancing around each other and the romantic in him couldn’t help but push them together, in the most gentle way possible.

As the day wore on and the lunch rush passed, then the preparations for dinner began, Jaskier still hadn’t seen his most mysterious guest. Perhaps he should check on him? That seemed rude not to, but at the same time the question of appropriateness loomed in the back of his mind. 

That was all dashed aside as Devonna, a town elder’s wife, burst through the door, her eyes panicked and wild. “You’ve got a Witcher! We need him!”

She was pale and shaking and Jaskier rushed to her side and got her sat down. The woman was clutching something in her right hand, the knuckles bled white as she gripped the object. “My dear woman, what happened?” he asked, running a soothing hand up and down her arm. 

“A griffon!” she wailed, her bloodless fingers unclenching. A talon the size of Jaskier’s palm clattered to the table. “Yan went with his brothers this morning to hunt and they came back just now, all bloody and torn up. Said the beast swooped out of the sky and grabbed Yan, carried him away!” Devonna broke into sobs, her pain evident with each wracking, choked noise as tears slid down her face.

As Jaskier’s staff bustled about them, bringing tea and handkerchiefs and asking how they could help, Jaskier shook them off with a firm, but polite, hand. _The Witcher_ , he thought as he raced up the stairs.

* * *

Geralt always slept like the dead after a contract, but it had been a while since he’d slept so deeply. No nightmares, no vivid hallucinations of fangs dripping poison or claws that grasped him and pulled him under the water. Just simple, peaceful rest.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Looked around the pin-neat room; at the soft blue rug and polished wood furniture and large copper tub. Then to where slats of late afternoon sunlight slipped across the wood floor. The world continued to move, and the village breathed and hummed with life. And Geralt felt still for the first time in a long, long while.

He’d normally chalk up such things to exhaustion but a glance down at his forearm made him think otherwise. The stitches were tidy and even and it was healing nicely. By tomorrow he’d have a scar and no one would be the wiser. And he remembered the innkeeper’s quick, decisive movements around him, not once flinching at his scars or eyes or the open wound on his arm.

A strange human, to be sure. Young, but still a man. He closed his eyes and saw thick brown hair and a cheeky smile; remembered the scent of wood smoke and sweat and paper. Geralt wondered if the innkeeper had checked on him while he slept like a stone at the bottom of a river, content in the knowledge that he was safe and well cared for.

Maybe that’s what was so confusing. He’d rode into town, completely forgetting it was Belleteyn, and the innkeeper had welcomed him with open arms. Gave him a room and food and a bath. Stitched his wound. And asked for nothing in return. Said something about it being his way of thanking a Witcher for his bravery.

Strange.

With a rumble of curiosity in his chest, Geralt stretched, taking his time. He had nowhere to be in the immediate days but he ought to walk through town and check the notice board. This area was rife with creature sightings in the past and given the warm spring air, they’d be breeding. He could pick up an easy contract or two, fill his purse, and carry on -

Pounding feet and the rabbit-like thump of a human heart made him turn to the door, hands going for his sword.

“Witcher! Geralt!”

The innkeeper. _Jaskier_.

“Apologies, Geralt,” Jaskier said as he burst into the room, bright blue eyes unsteady. “But I’ve need of a Witcher.”

Geralt went for his gear, feeling his pulse kick up at the barely-concealed panic in the other man’s voice. “Tell me.”

* * *

“Sorry, Roach,” Geralt said softly to his horse as he finished saddling her. “We’ll come back once it’s done.”

“I am truly sorry,” Jaskier said as he handed the Witcher the last of the saddlebags. “But a griffon, in these parts -”

Geralt shrugged. “It’s not unheard of. Given the size of the talon, probably a whelp looking for its first mate.”

Jaskier swallowed hard. “That sounds….dangerous.”

“It can be.” Something about the man’s body language made Geralt want to soothe him any way he could. “Young griffons in a mating frenzy are dangerous, but reckless. I can sneak up on it with little fuss.”

“And the boy?” Jaskier wrung his hands in worry. “Please, if you find him….”

 _Alive or dead_. Geralt knew better than to say what they were both thinking. If the boy was still alive, he wouldn’t be for long. “I’ll bring him back, no matter what.”

Jaskier passed a weary hand over his eyes and inhaled deeply. A steadying breath, one Geralt heard rush into the man’s lungs and out. And with it, his nerves subsided. Geralt could smell the worry and anxiety, but strangely no fear. This was an odd human for sure.

Geralt swung up into the saddle, reaching down to double check the bags at his side. “Please be careful, Geralt,” Jaskier said, blue eyes blindingly bright. “And thank you.”

Geralt grunted. Would have just taken off in the direction of the last griffon sighting, but paused. He felt compelled to reassure the man. “I’ll probably be unsightly when I get back.”

Jaskier snapped to attention, happy to be of service. “I’ll keep watch and have a bath and food ready. And your payment, of course.”

He nodded then spurred Roach on, following the path out of the village and into the woods. The innkeeper was too kind for his own good.

* * *

“Don’t fret, Master Jaskier,” Svetlana said as she bustled into the kitchen for the bread that had just come out of the oven. “He’s a Witcher, he’ll be fine.”

Jaskier sighed, handing over the bread and another bowl of beets. Some of the town guard had come in after their rounds looking for a hearty meal and Jaskier was happy to supply them with such fare. He’d lingered by their table, hoping to catch a snippet of conversation in which a certain white haired man was mentioned. But all they said was that he’d headed east out of town, toward the hunter’s blind where Yan had last been seen.

It was now twilight and Jaskier had no idea if the Witcher had a light source. He should have sent him out with some torches and a flint box. How stupid! Cat eyes or not, it got very dark in these parts and there was no way -

“The Witcher’s back!”

“Got a griffon head tied to his mount. Cor, you ever seen anything like it?”

“Fuck, that beak could rip a man open.”

“He has Yan?”

“And alive!”

Jaskier shot out of the kitchen like a crossbow bolt, the food forgotten. With a frantic glance around the common room, he saw several people crowded against the windows, trying for a glimpse of Geralt. But Jaskier felt called to action. Heart in his throat, he raced outside only to meet Geralt as he slung a bloodied but breathing Yan down from his horse, scooping the boy into his arms. “Bandages, hot water,” he said, voice hoarse. Jaskier saw blood dashed across his armor and more on his face. But as he moved, the armor bunched and Jaskier spotted an ugly wound on the Witcher’s shoulder. 

“The boy, then you, Geralt,” he said, moving to take charge of the situation. 

There was so much blood and yet the Witcher stood tall and proud and frustratingly gorgeous. Jaskier cursed his eyes and his traitorous brain and got to work.

* * *

The boy would live. Jaskier wasn’t the religious type but what Geralt had done was beyond miraculous. He burned to know what happened, but one look at the man’s face told him it could wait.

With a firm hand, Jaskier drove off the onlookers and hangers-on, all hoping for a story and to buy the Witcher a round. Svetlana, bless her soul, took up a collection from thankful townsfolk and set it aside. Everyone liked Yan, a smart, handsome young man who loved his mother and wanted to join the town guard when he was old enough. And Geralt had managed to keep at bay the tragedy of a life cut short.

Yan now securely in the care of the herbalist and busily batting away his mother’s fretting hands, Jaskier turned his attentions to Geralt. “You’re wounded,” he protested as Geralt trudged up the stairs, tracking mud and blood and other gloopy things across the floor. Jaskier didn’t care about the mess, but he did worry about the Witcher. “And that’s no slash on your arm.” 

“I’m fine,” Geralt said, but he sounded less sure than he had the prior evening. 

Jaskier jumped at the opening. “All right, you’ve forced my hand, good sir.” Geralt paused at his door, turning those bright gold eyes to the innkeeper. “Now, you’ve done us a tremendous service. It would be wrong of me to not make sure you’re taken care of in the aftermath.”

Geralt sighed and let his head thunk against the door. _Humans. This human. This weird, caring, fretting human. It defied logic._ “Fine,” he relented and pushed inside the room.

“Excellent!” Jaskier leaned over the railing. “Svetlana, water! Thomas, food and ale.” His staff scurried off and Jaskier followed the Witcher. 

A flurry of activity followed, which Geralt barely noticed. The griffon had been young but had already grown venom sacs beneath its claws and that was the concern. He hissed in pain, turning away from Jaskier and all the people moving around the room. The people tending to his needs. But Jaskier’s ears were apparently sensitive and upon hearing Geralt’s wince of pain, rushed over to help.

“Tell me what to do.”

The man was very close. Geralt caught the scent of frustration and worry, but again...no fear. It was bizarre. It defied everything he knew about humans. But the venom was pumping through his veins and he felt lightheaded. “My bag,” he said stiffly. “Clear bottle, dark blue liquid.”

The clink of bottles was immediately followed by the press of Jaskier’s warm hand in his own. Geralt tossed back the potion and waited for it to start working. “Is that it?” Jaskier asked, hands fluttering near Geralt’s wounded shoulder. Geralt’s instinct was to snap at him, warn him to stay away. But he didn’t want to scare the man. Another oddity. Another thing Geralt would need to mull over.

“Gotta get my armor off,” he grunted, reaching up and instantly regretting his decision. The wound gaped, pulled, and a fresh gout of blood poured forth. “Fuck.”

Jaskier put a solid, steadying hand on Geralt’s uninjured shoulder and stared at him with those bright blue eyes. “Tell me what to do, Geralt.”

* * *

The water was almost too hot, even for someone like the Witcher. But he sunk into the deep copper tub with a grateful sigh of relief and closed his eyes. He felt Jaskier’s stare like a brand, but it didn’t bother him. Couldn’t bother him. His body was nicked and scarred and lumpy, skin slashed and burned and cut so many times over his long decades that he’d long lost track of which marks were the oldest. The new ones still itched, including the one on his forearm. But the gash left from the griffon burned like the devil and made Geralt wince when the hot water hit it.

“I wish you’d let me stitch that for you,” Jaskier said. 

“Potion’s working. It’ll be fine by morning.” Geralt cracked an eye open when he heard Jaskier fussing with his armor. “Don’t worry about that.”

Jaskier spun suddenly, eyes blazing. “All right, Geralt, you listen to me this once. I don’t know how many times I can convey to you how grateful we are but in this town, we do not let those who assist us go untreated.” He pointed to the pile of black armor on the floor. “Your armor needs cleaned and patched. Diana is as mean as a snake, but she is the best armorsmith this side of the Pontar.” He then pointed to the tub. “You are going to rest and soak and get all that blood and gore off you. And then you’re going to sleep. Stop arguing with me.”

Jaskier breathed hard through his nose, all his anger and frustration rushing out in one fell swoop. _What am I doing? I ordered a WITCHER around? Melitele’s fine ass what was I thinking?_

But Geralt nodded slowly, his rigid jaw loosening as he said, “Thank you, Jaskier. That’s very kind.”

Jaskier approached Geralt with caution, like one would a spooked horse. Or maybe a wolf metaphor was more apt. He’d seen the medallion around Geralt’s neck, polished and well cared for on a thick leather cord. His curiosity burned with so many questions. The Witcher had stories, probably acres and acres of them. Some were written on his body in long healed scars and the bright pink lines of new wounds.

Jaskier’s fingers twitched against his thigh as he drank in the sight of the massive man sunk deep into a tub, fragrant water steaming around him and curling that bright white hair. “Let me help you once more.” He was feeling bold and a little flirtatious and if a relaxed Witcher let him do this, Jaskier figured he could die a happy man.

Like an annoyed cat, Geralt narrowed his eyes at Jaskier’s approach. “You’ve done enough.” His lips thinned and he shook his head. “I mean...you’ve done plenty, Jaskier.”

“Do you wish me to go?” Jaskier was still approaching with slow, tenuous steps.

Geralt blinked slowly, assessing the man before him. He saw the tension in his spine, the twitch of those long, dextrous fingers that had so expertly stitched his wound the prior night. The impossibly bright blue eyes that stared holes in his iron will. And he shook his head, knowing whatever he was going to do next was likely stupid. 

But Geralt found he didn’t care. Some part of him was still processing the kindness he’d been shown by the people of this little town. But he recognized the source of it all standing before him, desperate to help and smelling of concern and care and warm bread and good wine. 

A human. 

A man. 

Kind and gentle but firm at the same time. It defied anything Geralt had ever experienced.

He ached to bury his nose in Jaskier’s neck and scent his fill, committing it to memory. Something he could take comfort in when he was on the Path, alone and in the woods with nothing but his own mind to keep him company. And he was sitting in a bath mere feet from that man who did nothing for a reward, but because he cared.

That thought startled Geralt, who tore his gaze away as Jaskier approached. If it rattled Jaskier, he didn’t show it. But Geralt smelled the spike of adrenaline in his system. Something warm lay underneath it, cardamom and fresh apples. Geralt idly wondered if Jaskier would taste that sweet. If he’d moan softly as Geralt sunk his teeth into the beating pulse just below his jaw.

Jaskier picked up a bar of soap and a sponge, holding them out like an offering. “Let me,” he said gently, coming to rest on a stool he pulled behind the tub. “It’s a pity to see your hair so filthy.”

The back of Geralt’s neck prickled with awareness but he let Jaskier dip the soap and sponge into the water. He hummed in thought as he listened to the man lather up his hands. “May I?”

Something pulsed through Geralt’s system, warring with the slowly loosening coils of his muscles. It tensed and throbbed and Geralt took a steadying breath. “Yeah.”

Jaskier’s fingers were exceedingly gentle. They carded through the deep tangles of hair and blood and whatever gore had landed there from the griffon. Geralt didn’t want to think about entrails in his hair; it seemed wrong to let such a brilliant, sweet man see such ugly things. The nasty, horrible truth of a Witcher’s life and yet...Jaskier touched him. He didn’t flinch, didn’t gasp or fling himself away. He worked at the knots with nimble fingers slick from the soap and the only sounds in the room were the popping fire and the gentle lap of water.

“Please don’t feel compelled to tell me but….why is it white?”

“Hmmm?”

Jaskier didn’t have to hide his smile upon hearing the lazy, slow drawl of Geralt’s voice. “Your hair, Master Witcher.”

“I - huh.”

Jaskier flinched. _Shit_. “I’m so sorry! That was such a personal question. My mouth gets me into trouble quite a bit -“

One big hand, dripping with water, reached back and latched onto Jaskier’s wrist. He froze, eyes wide. “Don’t have to apologize,” Geralt rumbled, craning his neck to look back. “You surprised me. I mean, you keep surprising me.” He paused, trying to come up with an explanation that wasn’t the harsh edge of truth. “Witchers aren’t human. We’re….”

_Mutants_

_Different_

_Feared_

He sighed, let his hand drift through the water. “When I went through my Trials, I was stronger than the others. Was able to sustain more. A side effect of that transformation was my hair.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say. The rumors around Witchers and how they were made ranged from superstitious to ridiculous to downright cruel. But this little insight was startling. Jaskier pushed his fingers through Geralt’s hair, separating the thick strands and watching the ends lay against the thick column of his throat.

“I had no idea,” he finally said. He focused on a particularly stubborn tangle that was weighed down by dark red blood. The blood had dried and snarled the hair into a knot that seemed a bit hopeless. “This knot is troublesome,” he grumbled.

“Cut it out.”

“What?” Oh no, that wouldn’t do. “That seems a bit drastic. I just need a comb to work it out. You’ve got one in your bag?”

“No.”

Jaskier sputtered. “Geralt. A comb. It’s….a comb.”

Geralt shrugged. “Lost the last one and never replaced it.”

“Well, I’m getting a comb and we’re working this knot out. I am not cutting your hair. That would be criminal.”

Geralt turned to look at the man. “Why? It’s just hair. And it’s too long.”

Jaskier flushed, deepening the splash of dark pink on his throat from his proximity to the hot bath. “Truthfully?” At Geralt’s nod, Jaskier sighed. He was probably a dead man after this confession but so be it. He was already so close to the Witcher, he might as well go all in. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen such pure white hair and on you it’s fitting.”

The Witcher furrowed his brow, the dark slashes of his eyebrows sinking. “It’s just hair, Jaskier.”

Jaskier caressed the slick strands resting on Geralt’s shoulder. “And I’m a romantic at heart who can’t help but notice beautiful things.” The tips of his fingers brushed Geralt’s shoulder. “And you are beautiful. And brave and selfless and I’m apparently an obsessed, foolish weakling.” He chuckled dryly, avoiding Geralt’s gaze. “I should leave you. I’ll put a comb outside the door.”

As Jaskier stood, back screaming in protest from sitting on the little stool for so long, a hand gripped his wrist. “Stay.” Jaskier whirled, mouth already working to protest. But Geralt’s soft, “Please,” stopped him.

“All right.” Gods, his heart was pounding in his chest but he couldn’t deny the man sitting before him in a steaming bath. 

Jaskier’s words swam in Geralt’s mind, pulling and pushing at his stubborn, decades-old knowledge and assumptions about humans. “Can you fix my hair?” he asked, his voice sounding rather small to his own ears. 

“I - yes.” Jaskier sat again, plucking at the knot he’d been working on. “But I do need a comb.”

“All right.”

“Right, I’ll just go...get that then.” Geralt felt Jaskier’s fingers brush the side of his neck. “I’ll be right back.” Jaskier dashed off, the soft creak of his footsteps over the floorboards signaling his exit. Geralt sighed and sank back against the tub.

* * *

_Deep breaths. Just breathe. Don’t think about naked Witchers in the tub. Or their long white hair. Or how their skin feels under your fingers._

_Definitely don’t think about that look, the one where you thought the hard shell might crack just a little. You are showing a man some kindness. A man who sorely needs a little bit of that in his life._

Jaskier pushed into the room, comb in hand, bottle of wine in the other. “I thought we might share a drink -“

He stopped. Stared. Would have dropped the bottle but that would have been a waste of good wine.

Geralt was standing in front of the dresser mirror, fingers tangled in his hair as he tried to work out that stubborn knot. And he was very much wet and very nearly naked. The towel was far too small for his large frame and Jaskier saw impossibly thick thighs and tapered calves and even the little indent at the small of Geralt’s back. 

His body was a story of action but Jaskier saw its beauty and its strength and he wanted. Gods he _wanted. Ached_ with it.

Jaskier wanted to bite him.

_I’m going to faint. Oh Melitele’s tits how is someone so beautiful?_

“I think I made it worse,” Geralt said morosely. “You may have to cut it after all.”

“Never.” Jaskier swallowed, shook his head. “Never give up, fair Witcher.” He motioned to the bed. “Sit, and we will conquer that stubborn knot yet.”

Geralt snorted and extricated his fingers from his hair, walking slowly across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. The scent of jasmine wafted by and Jaskier had to stop himself from lifting his nose to the air and sniffing like a dog. He brandished the comb with a grin and slid onto the bed. 

Gerald had actually managed to slip more hair free of the knot, but it was also tangled. Jaskier started there, instead of tackling the beast all at once. “I apologize if I pull. This is quite a mess.”

Geralt shrugged. “I’m grateful. And you won’t hurt me.” He paused. “Can’t.”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of it that way but that makes sense.”

The Witcher caught the scent of anxiety; it undercut the sweet tartness of Jaskier with something acidic. “Sorry. I’m bad at being around people.” He slumped forward to stare at his big, scarred hands. “We’re taught from a young age to only rely on ourselves and our brothers. But every Witcher walks the Path alone.”

Jaskier perked up at that. “Brothers?”

Geralt couldn’t stop the smile on his face; regretted that Jaskier couldn’t see it. “Yeah. Got a few of them. Witchers, like me. Lambert’s an ass but he’s loyal as anything. He’s younger than me and Eskel, though.”

Jaskier grinned. “So not the strong, silent type like this Witcher.” He teasingly poked Geralt in the shoulder.

“Hmmm.” Jaskier tugged on his hair, so Geralt tipped his head back to give Jaskier better access. 

“And this Eskel?”

“We were raised together. We’re about the same age. He’s….” 

“Special.” Jaskier finished. The Witcher’s tone had instantly softened, turning to honey as he spoke about his fellow Witchers. “I understand. I have siblings but the only one I’m close to is my sister. She’s coming next week, actually.”

Jaskier told Geralt about Evelyn and how much trouble they got into as children, showing up in the evening for dinner with grass stains on their clothes and skinned knees. Fishing in the nearby river. Teaching her how to play the lute.

“You play?” Geralt turned, interest in his eyes.

Jaskier blushed. “I uh….did. It’s been a while. I was actually thinking about breaking out the old girl sometime soon, shake the dust off as it were.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth tipped up. “Next time I’m in town, I’d like to hear it.” His gold eyes flashed. “Hear you.”

Jaskier nodded, his head suddenly too heavy for his neck. Something throbbed low in his gut and he pushed it aside, gave Geralt a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Consider it done.”

Geralt frowned. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing at all.” Jaskier glanced at the dark sky in the little window cutout above the shutters. “I didn’t realize it had grown so dark. You must be exhausted and here I am, prattling away at you.” But he couldn’t stop himself from carding his fingers through the now untangled hair. “But we didn’t have to cut your hair, so I consider it a good day.”

Geralt huffed a silent laugh. “You have a strange measurement for what constitutes a good day, Jaskier.”

He shrugged. “I’m a simple, yet complicated man, Master Witcher.” He gave Geralt’s wound a glance, then pulled back upon seeing it nearly healed. “That’s incredible.”

Geralt shrugged. “Had to counteract the griffon poison. The side effect of the potion is rapid healing.”

“It’s remarkable. Well, I should…” With a chaste pat to his shoulder, Jaskier swung his legs over the side of the bed and made to stand up. 

“Stay.” The Witcher’s fingers were solid, but not tight, on his wrist. Jaskier froze, partially turned away from Geralt. And those fingers - oh, how Jaskier wanted to blaspheme to the heavens and gods above about those fingers - skated up his bare forearm, their bumps and calluses making him shiver. “I want you to stay.”

Jaskier didn’t bother to hide his quick intake of breath. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Geralt leaned forward to trace the edge of Jaskier’s jaw with his other hand. “You’re kind. And confusing.” He ran his index finger down, over Jaskier’s thumping pulse. “I want to taste you.”

* * *

Jaskier’s mouth worked but no sound came out. He shivered under Geralt’s fiery stare and considered throwing himself onto the bed and at the Witcher’s mercy. 

_Yes please. Please touch me and kiss me and let me crawl inside you so I always remember how you smell. I want those thick fingers inside me, working me open, making me pant and keen and yell your name so the whole inn knows who is fucking me._

But of course he didn’t say that. Jaskier was unaware of how he smelled to Geralt - and even that he had a scent, like all humans did - but it was driving Geralt mad. He rose to his knees, looming over Jaskier. With two fingers under the man’s chin, Geralt drew him up, commanding him to rise and come closer. 

Jaskier had to obey. He had to follow the magnetic pull of the Witcher. To be in his orbit so, like the sun, he could bask in his warmth. “Would you kiss me?” Jaskier whispered, close now to Geralt and still not close enough. 

Geralt leaned down. Breathed in the scent of lust and bread and heady red wine. Filled his lungs with Jaskier’s smell, held it there like something precious. He thumbed at Jaskier’s bottom lip as he said, “Been wanting to do that since we met.”

Geralt’s lips barely touched Jaskier’s but the other man moaned, a heady and sweet lust-filled sound that warmed Geralt’s gut. He kissed him gently, lazily, brushing his lips against Jaskier’s over and over again. Warm and dry and not enough.

Jaskier canted forward, hands fluttering around Geralt’s sides. “You can’t hurt me,” Geralt murmured against his mouth. “Touch me.”

Jaskier sank into him. He licked into Geralt’s mouth, suddenly ravenous. He ran his palms over Geralt’s ribs, skating over smooth skin and raised scars. Maybe he was moaning too much, breathing too hard, but it didn’t seem to bother the Witcher. Geralt kissed him with precision and desire, his tongue twining around Jaskier’s, breath hot. But gods his hands….they were _everywhere_. Tugging at buttons and raising hems. Carding through his hair and pulling lightly, experimentally.

Jaskier groaned and Geralt looked up, startled. _Fuck_. Those eyes. Those golden, lust-blown eyes looking at him like he was a meal and Geralt had been starving for days. Weeks. “It’s….sensitive,” Jaskier panted, arching against the Witcher’s hard body. “I like having my hair pulled.”

That earned him a grin, feral and knowing and calculating all at once. “I will have to remember that,” Geralt said, voice low in his ear. He shoved at Jaskier, who let the motion carry him down to the mattress. The line of the man’s body was long and lithe, but the ridge of his cock belied a level of interest some part of Geralt still couldn’t quite believe. _He wants me._

With a swift yank, Geralt flung the towel off his hips and to some unseen corner of the room. “Oh fuck me,” Jaskier whispered. “You sinful, gorgeous man. I want you inside me. Fuck me stupid on that beautiful cock.”

Geralt pounced, bringing his weight and heat and desire down on the man begging for him. Jaskier rattled off praise and filth in equal measure, pleading and whimpering while Geralt sucked livid bruises into his neck and collarbone. 

Marked.

Claimed.

Jaskier let himself be swept up by the Witcher’s steady, hot hands and wet lips and rock hard body that rolled and crested against him. “Going to wreck you for anyone else,” Geralt growled before biting his way down Jaskier’s chest. Some tiny part of him was glad he’d been wearing old clothes, but another part of him would have killed to see Geralt tear satin and velvet from his body. To rend his finest clothes to tatters so the Witcher could slake his lust on the taste and feel of him.

“I want...want,” Jaskier panted, mind shutting down so he could _feel_.

“I know.”

Geralt mouthed at a nipple, rolling the little bud over his tongue, then between his teeth. Jaskier _howled_ , hands dug into thick white locks, thighs clenched around Geralt’s ribs. And then the Witcher smiled at him, eyes locked on his, before slinking down his body and swallowing Jaskier’s cock in one go.

His eyes rolled back in his head, his back bowed and taut, but he was fully under Geralt’s control. Fingers tightened on his hips, controlling his wild thrusting. Little grunts of pleasure were accompanied by filthy sucking sounds. But all of that paled in comparison to Jaskier’s little pants and the sparrow-quick jump of his pulse in Geralt’s mouth. He tasted him, the salt and bitter, the heat and lavender of it, thick and rich. A bolt of pure lust spiked in Geralt’s system, making him moan around Jaskier’s cock.

“Fuck,” Jaskier whispered, eyes wide and staring at the obscene spread of Geralt’s lips around his prick. Geralt worked his throat, swallowing hard before tonguing at the slit. Tasting him. Working him over and over again so he could feel the man shake and quiver and listen to him whine deep in the back of his throat. Letting Jaskier feel his throat muscles pull and suck him under. 

Jaskier thrashed under his ministrations, and then he began to beg. “Please, Geralt. _Please_. My gods, I need you to fuck me right now. Want to be spread out under you, fucked into until I see stars -“

Geralt pulled off his prick with a wet pop and licked his lips. “Was gonna eat you out first,” he growled and Jaskier gasped. “Dive right into you. Get you wet for me.”

 _I’m going to pass out if he keeps doing that_ , Jaskier thought, dizzy with lust. He nodded with a whimper and Geralt grinned. “Good boy.”

 _Kill me_.

“Flip over,” Geralt commanded, his voice a bit hoarse. Once Jaskier was leaning on the bed, ass in the air and face pressed into a pillow, Geralt ran his hands down his back, soothing. “You gotta tell me if it’s too much. I’m serious.” Jaskier shook his head but Geralt persisted. “Don’t want to hurt you.”

“Your tongue in my ass isn’t going to hurt,” Jaskier protested, earning him a laugh. 

“Hmmm.”

Jaskier was expecting lips on his back, maybe running down the knobs of his spine. He was not prepared for Geralt’s mouth on the inside of his left thigh, then the scrape of teeth. He yelped and bucked forward, desperate for friction. Geralt gave the other thigh the same treatment; not to bruise, but to nip and sting.

And Jaskier definitely wasn’t expecting the Witcher to nose at his balls and inhale. He melted into the mattress, whimpering weakly. “You smell good,” Geralt rumbled, licking a wet strip up the back of his sack. “Musky. Warm. Been a while since I had a man and I made the right choice.” 

Jaskier’s knees went weak and he began to tremble. The anticipation was too much and just right and not enough all at the same time and he didn’t honestly know where his body ended and Geralt’s hands and fingers and tongue began. Or maybe the opposite was true. But none of it mattered - Geralt was steady and sturdy behind him, blazing like a furnace and a mouth talented enough to make him moan the Witcher’s name.

Hot breath ghosted over his ass, and then Geralt was spreading his cheeks apart, humming in appreciation. “Pretty,” he growled. “Mine.”

 _No, now I’m dead. This Witcher is going to suck out my soul through my ass and I’ll have begged him for it._ It was a stupid thought, giddy on lust and Jaskier wanted _more_.

“I’m a greedy bottom,” he warned. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Geralt’s mouth on his ass stopped him from talking. It was sloppy. Filthy. Geralt licked and sucked his rim while Jaskier moaned and rocked against him, his fingers clutching the sheets, knuckles bled white. 

“Please,” Jaskier breathed out, sobbing with pleasure and nearly overstimulated while Geralt opened him up with his mouth. His cock throbbed and he had to thrust against the mattress, desperate for any friction lest he explode untouched and unfucked.

A tongue in his ass. A Witcher’s tongue in his ass, licking and sucking and spearing him on it, making his hole gape and pucker and greedily suck it in. And then it was gone, the experience too short yet burned into Jaskier’s memory.

“Had enough?”

“No. And gods above _yes_.” 

The bed shifted while Geralt rummaged in his bag, then Jaskier heard a cork being pulled. “Need more?” Geralt asked, circling his hole with an oiled finger. Jaskier whined and thrust back, but Geralt slung an arm around his waist, stilling him. “Use your words, innkeep.”

“Yes. Yes. Please open me up more.” He shot Geralt a sultry look over his shoulder. “Gonna need it for that monstrous cock.”

Geralt gave himself a few strokes while he pushed one finger into Jaskier’s spit-slick hole, watching it tense then pull him under. Jaskier cursed a filthy blue streak and pushed back, impatient and needy and thrilling Geralt down to his toes with every dirty word. 

One finger turned into two and by the time Geralt asked him if he needed three, Jaskier was sweating and humping the bed, fingers hooked into claws. “ _Geralt_ ,” he snarled, gnashing his teeth at the cocktease who had two fingers in his ass and was calmly asking for an assessment of his own asshole.

“Impatient,” he growled before biting down on a cheek. Jaskier jumped and snapped back at him. Geralt saw the sweat running down his red face; those glassy eyes that begged so sweetly. He wrapped his arms around Jaskier’s waist. “Ready?”

Jaskier could only nod.

Now he tasted a line down Jaskier’s spine, following the intricate bones and all their lumps underneath that pale skin. “Breathe,” he said softly and as Jaskier exhaled, Geralt pushed in.

Jaskier’s vision went white. 

“You okay? Jaskier?”

Jaskier nodded, tried to speak. His throat was dry and he swallowed hard. “Y-yes. Yes, _please_ , Geralt.” He was oversensitized and yet not enough and he felt that cock - glorious and huge and girthy and whatever other adjective someone could come up with for such a sensitive piece of a man’s anatomy - slide in. The Witcher was being gentle, knowing that it was likely burning (which it most definitely was), but Jaskier wanted it. All of it. 

“Move,” he said through gritted teeth. Geralt paused, assessing. The sight of Jaskier taking him like this was beyond erotic. He was going to see this burned on the inside of his eyelids for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe forever. This man willingly opened to him - his home and business and even his body. To a Witcher.

“Don’t ask me if I’m sure,” Jaskier continued, wiggling back, driving Geralt’s cock in deeper. “Just fuck me.”

A swift yank on Jaskier’s hips made the smaller man fly back, but Geralt had him. Turned them so they were face to face and Geralt was seated with a lap full of Jaskier. “Rise up,” he said, lifting Jaskier with one hand and curling the fingers of his other hand into Jaskier’s sweaty hair. Jaskier did as instructed, a panting, writhing mess, but he bore down on Geralt’s cock. “You said you were a greedy bottom,” Geralt teased, voice rumbling and clattering like stones.

Jaskier barked out a surprised laugh with a tip of his head back. “I did! I did say that and oh I do not regret it at all.” Now fully seated and feeling every inch of Geralt’s cock throbbing inside him, Jaskier let his eyes roll up in pleasure. “My gods…”

“Move,” Geralt ordered, yanking Jaskier down for a kiss that burned and stung and bore blunt teeth in his bottom lip.

Jaskier moved. His hips rocked back and forth in a rolling wave, showcasing a shocking amount of flexibility and stamina. Geralt was hypnotized by his movements while he clutched at Jaskier, sweaty fingers slipping through thick brown hair and over a trim waist. He was driving Geralt mad with need and somehow, Geralt suspected Jaskier knew that. 

“Better?” Jaskier panted out, his grin far too self-satisfactory as he rocked them both, watching Geralt’s stomach tense.

Geralt thrust up and Jaskier’s jaw dropped. That cock, that monstrous thing inside him making him feel stuffed to the brim and then just a little more, brushed over a bundle of nerves. The rush of adrenaline and wildfire want blazed up his spine. He groaned, spread his legs so Geralt could sink in deeper.

“Fuck,” Geralt said softly, eyes hooded and dark as they stared at Jaskier. “Fuck I knew you’d be good at that.”

Jaskier’s grin became smug. “And I…I haven’t been laid like this ever. You should be impressed.”

“I am.”

Oh that feral smile on the Witcher’s face - all teeth and unchecked desire - was enough to spur Jaskier on. He pushed on Geralt’s chest and it was like moving a mountain, but Geralt allowed it. His back hit the bed and then Jaskier went to work. Hips pumping, thighs burning with effort, he used the solid chest beneath him as a guide and for leverage. He fucked the Witcher like he’d never fucked anyone before, punctuating each thrust with little sounds of pleasure, ripe and begging and bursting at the seams.

Geralt held onto him, even as Jaskier’s thrusts became erratic and his untouched cock wept on Geralt’s stomach. He wanted to see if the man could come without being stroked to orgasm. He wanted to feel his release splash over his skin so he could smell it on himself for days.

 _Fuck, this man is making me feral_.

And yet Geralt wanted more.

He grabbed Jaskier’s chin, forced him to look down. “You’re too fucking good at this,” he said, praise dripping off his tongue like honey. “Want to come inside you. Is that -”

Jaskier groaned, wet his lips. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Geralt grabbed Jaskier’s hips, lifted him up, and pushed him back down as he thrust up, hitting that precious spot. Jaskier let out a strangled cry that gave only a few seconds’ warning. His back arched, hands spasming where they gripped Geralt’s chest, blunt nails that dug into his flesh and made him hiss in pleasure. Geralt could see his ribs, the bones of his sternum and hips, the deep flush up his belly and then Jaskier was coming all over Geralt’s chest.

Geralt had never seen anything more beautiful in his many long years.

“Fuck,” he spat, feeling Jaskier’s hole clench around him. “Fucking fuck, Jaskier.” His cry of pleasure was a short, stuttered groan that Jaskier felt rattle in his bones. The spurt of heat inside his body made his eyes cross and his cock, abused and already going soft, was desperately trying to rally. But he was focused on the Witcher; the heaving chest, the blissed-out look on his face. 

His closed eyes and lazy smile. And especially the way Geralt laced their fingers together and squeezed his hand.

Jaskier’s heart constricted but his smile was steady. Sure. “You are magnificent,” he said breathlessly. 

Geralt scrubbed at his face and gave a groan. “Says the man who rode me to death.”

Jaskier batted at him. “You are a horrible tease and truly magnificent. You can be both.” He clenched around Geralt and the noise he made was pained. “Could you -”

Now Geralt touched him gently, helping him lift up and move to the side. He halfheartedly swiped at them both with a clean cloth. “Just toss it in the corner,” Jaskier mumbled, arm thrown over his eyes. “I’ll clean it up. Not about to make my staff do _that_.” He got a rumbling, rolling laugh out of the Witcher and returned it with a grin. “Ugh, just give me a minute for the feeling to return to my legs and I’ll be out of your hair, Geralt.”

Geralt’s answer was to scoop him into his arms and press his chest into Jaskier’s back. “Stay,” he said, nuzzling at Jaskier’s nape. 

Jaskier stayed.

* * *

Geralt stayed for two more days. Which turned into another two. He picked up contracts from nearby towns, but always rode back to The Traveler’s Way, no matter how late in the evening. After a week, Geralt knew he needed to move on. He especially felt the call of the Path after Jaskier’s sister, husband, and new baby arrived and the inn filled up with a new round of guests. He was taking a room from Jaskier’s business and ignoring his duties.

They both knew he’d need to be leaving. Geralt was a Witcher, whose life was not his own. But it nagged at him - it could be. What if he could change? Was seventy years too old for such a shift? 

He wondered these things as he loaded up Roach’s saddlebags, preparing to leave in a few hours. Roach knickered at him, bumping her nose into the side of his head. “Yeah, yeah,” he murmured, giving her nose a few pats and then letting her pluck the apple from his pocket. “I know.”

He had to move on.

Nothing said he couldn’t return, even every season as long as he wasn’t ignoring his duties. Since he’d been here, he’d killed a griffon whelp, a dozen drowners, and two water hags. That was often more than he killed in weeks, and he’d done so in eight days.

He had to move on. He did.

Temper now soured, he stomped back into the inn. Jaskier brightened when he saw Geralt but quickly, accurately assessed the storm cloud on his face. He motioned Geralt out the back door, concern drawing down his brow. “Did something happen?”

“No I…” Geralt sighed. “You know I have to get back on the Path. It’s my job. My calling.”

Jaskier matched his sigh with one of his own. “I know. I’ve felt so guilty, like I was being greedy and making you feel as though you had to stay.” He ran a hand down Geralt’s armored chest. “That’s why I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Geralt reared back as if he’d been struck. “You can’t.”

“Oh no, my sturdy, beautiful friend. You absolutely do not get to tell me what to do. Especially not after you’ve had your cock in me many, _many_ times.” Jaskier motioned to the stables. “Thomas is saddling River now. I’m coming with you.”

Geralt felt his resolve begin to crumble. “The inn?”

Jaskier grinned. “Evelyn and her family are taking care of it. And who knows? I might get bored after a week and return.” He sidled closer, batting those pretty eyelashes. “Or I might stick around and start singing about your heroics. I could make you famous, Geralt.”

This man was going to be the death of him. And yet Geralt couldn’t turn him away. _Witchers don’t need anyone. Can’t need anyone._

And that begged the question - why not?

He should have been furious at this man, making him question so many truths he’d clung to for decades. And yet when he stared down at him and those bright blue eyes, he found the impossible to be true.

“And let me guess,” Jaskier continued, watching hesitance play about Geralt’s strong features. “Witchers aren’t supposed to have companions on the road. Well, balderdash I say. I can swing a sword with the best of -”

“Fencing foil.”

Jaskier punched him in the arm. “Shut up. Then you’ll just have to train me, oh mighty Witcher. And I want to meet this Eskel and the others.” 

“Hmmm.” This went against everything Geralt knew, that had been trained and beaten into him. It defied all logic and common sense. The Witcher’s Path was no place for a human, a mortal.

And yet…

“I tell you to stay at camp, you stay,” Geralt said, tipping Jaskier’s chin up with a gloved finger. “I don’t want you put in danger.”

Jaskier scoffed. “If I don’t see you fight, how am I to write songs of your deeds?”

“I’ll tell you details afterwards.”

“Now that’s not the same -”

“Innkeep.”

Jaskier huffed, batted Geralt’s hand away. “I’m very strong willed, Geralt. You’ll see.” He started to walk away, then turned and gave Geralt a heart-stopping smile. “And if you’re going to use a title, I prefer bard. That was my original calling, you know. Now, I’m off to fetch my lute and us more rations and then we should set out. The day’s not getting any longer, dear Witcher.”

Geralt watched him walk away with a shake of his head. “Bard it is then.”


End file.
